When Time Stops
by scarletphlame
Summary: John finds himself unexpectedly back at Bart's Hospital, meeting a younger Sherlock for the second time. With vague memories of Mary and a wedding but no recollection of what he was doing prior to his appearance in the past, he is given a second chance to remember or to forget. AU, PeggySue!John


When Time Stops

The first thought that crosses John's mind at that very moment is _I've been here before_.

It's a thought that has the potential to cross one's mind at many moments. Shopping at the mall or taking the liberty of a trip to a friend's home, a person might find that such a mental comment is not entirely out of order. It's not as if this particular comment is parent to a nervous breakdown, or will result in a trip to a mental care facility.

But the thing about John Watson in this very moment is that he _has_ been here before.

Well, sort of, anyway.

John can't remember what he was doing before this, or what he was thinking before this–Christ, if he _was_ doing anything at all, it's completely vanished from his mind, all traces of it, poof, goodbye, see you next August! Even so, he is unable to stop the next words that fall out of his mouth in perfect order and key, like notes in a song.

"Well, bit different from my day."

He sort of freezes, thinks, _no, this isn't actually happening right now,_ when Mike chuckles beside him and exclaims he's absolutely no idea.

John doesn't have a very photogenic memory. And yet, this very moment, this very conversation has been burned into his brain. It's one he plays over in his head, thinking–and grinning–at the memories of how different the both of them had been back then. He'd been truly miserable. He suspects Sherlock had been as well. No one who says they must be alone truly wishes to be alone. Everyone wants someone.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Ah, there it is. The line that started it all. Well, in a sense, perhaps.

John has always been a helpful man. He's always searched for ways to help others, always gone out of his way to look out for friends. He's straightforward, kind, honest, and funny at times. It's what makes him a good man. And this was where it started for him to be good for Sherlock, to go out of his way to help the consulting detective.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asks.

"He prefers to text," John mumbles under his breath, perhaps a bit too loudly. Sherlock seems to catch attention of this detail, and before John can finish the thought formulating in his mind that says _oh, shit that was a bad idea, _Mike has moved on.

"It's in my coat," Mike explains, giving John an odd…odd look.

"You can use mine." John's hands reach instinctively for his coat pockets–when he recalls that's not where he used to keep his phone. He fumbles in his back pocket and hands the phone to Sherlock–who seems to be dissecting him as he moves.

_Shit._

And, oh, God, he doesn't want to be here, really doesn't want to be here right now. This is probably just some screwed-up result of too much to drink–or maybe he's been kidnapped and drugged again, there's a plausible theory. His mind drifts to the incident in the bonfire, and then he freezes up, his insides clenching over his stomach–Mary.

He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the hallucination–or dream–or whatever the hell it is to pass; but it doesn't, and when he opens his eyes Sherlock is rapidly typing at John's Blackberry as Mike introduces him.

Sherlock takes a breath–presumably to ask 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'–but then a part of John jumps at the opportunity. Because, no, Sherlock isn't getting one-up on John this time. Under the theory this is all a complex hallucination or dream or delusion of some sort, it doesn't undermine the possibility of… well, having a bit of fun on John's part, and–

"Afghanistan," John says. His insides are tingling, and the corner of his mouth twitches as he fights the urge to not burst out in mad laughter. "I could see you were wondering." Doing his best to control the muscles in his face, he sends a light grin to Sherlock. "I can tell, you know. The way you're looking at me as if you're taking me apart. And, by the way, she's my sister."

His good mood is shattered by the look Sherlock is giving him. The man might as well have him under a microscope. John squirms under the almost-surgical analysis. But as if the universe is in favor of sending him good grace today–this day, of all days–Molly enters the room with a mug of coffee. Sherlock accepts it almost numbly, but forces himself to put on an at least sane-looking expression and mutters something probably insulting to Molly. The woman doesn't even look at John as she flees the room. John finds himself under Sherlock's gaze once more.

"Well, uhm… Sherlock, was it? Right, well, it's been lovely, but I really must get on my way. Where should we meet tomorrow?"

John needs to get out of here. He can't bear watching Sherlock eye him like… he doesn't trust him, like he's a stranger. Whatever is wrong with him should be gone by the next day; under the childish notion that running away from what source of the problem likely is will save him from his own delusions.

Sherlock seems to break out of his trance. "Yes, well, I've got my eye set on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. The address is 221B Baker Street–"

John anticipates the meeting time before his brain can even register the words.

"Fantastic. How about we meet there at seven tomorrow evening?" Sherlock's brows furrow. "Anyway, I've got to dash. See you then."

He makes a break for the exit, just as Sherlock calls out, "So, tell me, Doctor John Watson, what do you know about me?"

John stops in the doorway and squeezes his eyes shut. _I know you love me. I know I love you. But I know I can't._

"Nothing." He sends Sherlock a reassuring smile. "I'm nobody. I'm just passing by."

Silence buzzes around their ears for a few more moments, then he nods back into the room. "Have a nice day," he tells Mike, quietly, before exiting the building at a walk. Gradually, his pace increases, and soon he is running, _running_ all the way back to his old flat as if it holds the answers he is searching for.

Chances are, it will not.

* * *

><p>AN: Yeah… This is s'posed to be a oneshot, but it sort of got blown out of control…<p>

Should I continue this? I'm awful busy and it'll put everything else on hold.

R&R!


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